


Twenty Four Hours

by jlillymoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom, parentlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlillymoon/pseuds/jlillymoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short one shot looking at 24 hours of Anabel Holmes- Watson the daughter of Mary Watson and John Watson. Some of the story of John and Sherlock's relationship told in flashback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Four Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short one shot, told in both present tense and past tense through flashbacks. A teenage daughter of Mary and John and how her live evolved into the daughter of Sherlock and John. Totally unbeta'd, un brit picked and basic editing only. Just me messing around with an idea and poof! 6000 + words later here we are. Let me know what you guys think. My second fan fic and my first in Parentlock... but I love it!

I felt the cold of the stone beneath me seeping up into my bottom through my jeans. I turned my head to look at the black door up two steps and behind me. I hated waiting for it to open, but I was terrified to open it up myself. I was late. Not Dad late. Dad always ran about fifteen minutes behind. Father said it was because he was always trying to do too much in such a short period of time. No, tonight I was really late. Three hours to be precise. And to top it off, I had forgotten my key.  
I know that Dad and Father were home. It was really late and Father always left a single light on in the front sitting room for me. And tonight, I could see from the street that the entire sitting room was ablaze with light. No doubt my parents were sitting up, worrying and waiting for me. But I was being a coward. I didn’t want to go in and let Father take one look at me and deduce exactly how awful my night was. Father was always telling Dad exactly how brave he was and how much he adored him for it. But I was not as brave as my dad. I felt my mobile buzz in my pocket and I extracted it to read the message.  
“If I promise not to say anything until tomorrow, will you stop sitting outside and worrying your dad?” I closed my eyes and sighed. Of course Father knew that I was sitting outside. He knew the minute I sat down. I could never hide a thing from him. But then again, he was rubbish at hiding things from me too.  
I really don’t remember much before Dad and Father got together. I know from their friends and our family that they were friends for years and shared our flat together. I know most of the truth now. How Father faked his death to save Dad. How Dad shot a man to save Father the very first night they met. How my mother, my mother who was now gone, had come between them. But I remember very distinctly my third birthday party. It’s my first memory of Father. I know he was in my life before then. But my memories of him before that day were fleeting and vague. I remember sitting in a chair, my blond hair curly and wild. Dad had done his best as a single father to give me a real girlhood in the beginning. I was wearing an over done pink cupcake of a dress that my Aunt Harry had picked out. I had icing smeared across my face and I was sugar high. Aunt Harry and Dad were arguing in the corner of the room and Mrs. Hudson was trying to clean me up. I was having no part of sitting still and she was getting frustrated with me. I felt a cool pair of long hands around my waist and a few soft words spoken as I was lifted up. I was spun around and settled on a hip. I looked up after Mrs. Hudson had taken two more swipes at my face and hands to be stunned by the most incredible blue green eyes I can ever remember seeing. I’m sure my own eyes were as big as saucers.  
It was his voice that caught me next. The deep baritone that sent vibrations through my little body. He was whispering next to my ear and holding me close. “Anabel. Happy Birthday, little one.” I remember being pulled from his arms quickly and handed to Aunt Harry. She pulled me in close and ran me from the room while Dad shouted at Father.  
I turned my mobile over and over in my hand for a moment. I decided to text back. “I’m fine. Forgot my key. Exactly how upset is Dad?” My finger hovered over the send button for a moment. I shut my eyes tight and pressed down on the electronic button. I leaned back a bit and kept my eyes shut. I thought about what Father was going to see on me tonight and thought about how lousy my date had been.  
With Dad, honesty was always best. Just coming out with the truth usually lowered any punishment. It never stunted the anger, however. His anger was a driving force behind who he was. But Father. He was tougher. It was always the disappointment in his face that felt like a kick in the gut. I didn’t even have to say anything to him and he knew whatever was on my mind or what had happened to me. His punishments, although infrequent, often involved Uncle Mycroft or Aunt Molly. It was rarely tolerable and I never repeated those mistakes. But as transparent as I seemed to be from Father, he was the same to me.  
I recalled the one time he and Dad had gone away on work shortly after Dad and I had moved to Baker Street. I was five and had just started school. Aunt Molly had been staying with me at the flat and I was up later than I should have been. Aunt Molly was sleeping on the sofa and Dad had gone to take a shower. I heard Father walking around the flat and climb the stairs. I was calling him Uncle Sherlock at that time and he nudged my door open at the top of the stairs. I was in my bed, exactly where I should have been, but there wasn’t s clean space on my bed, due to stuffed toys and books. So many books. I learned to read early, mostly thanks to Father. And I read a lot. I had been reading a Little House on the Prairie book and didn’t want to put it down. Father strode into the room and I held up my hand to give him notice that I wanted to finish the page. I gently put in my book mark and closed the book. I looked up at him and smiled.  
“You haven’t eaten much in the three days you were gone. Daddy is angry with you. You didn’t sleep much either.” I said. Father looked at me for a long while and then barked out a loud laugh. His smile lit up his tired eyes and he began stacking up the books on my bed and placing them on the floor.  
“And you, young lady should have been asleep three hours ago.” He said as he sat down on the edge of the bed.   
“Uncle Sherlock,” I began, “You and Daddy are boyfriends. Why aren’t you married?” I asked. “I know you want to and I know that Daddy loves you. I want to wear a pretty dress and be a flower girl.”  
That’s the first time that Father knew I was smarter than him. Dad and Father were married less than two months later and I got to wear a pretty blue dress. Father said it matched my eyes. I felt my mobile buzz in my hand I opened my eyes to read the message.  
“He’s quiet. Better now that he knows you are on the front step. I’ll come unlock the door. You should go up to your room. I will send him to bed. Better to have him calmer in the morning.” I sighed again. The night air was cool and my bum was basically numb from sitting on the cold ground for the better part of an hour. But I wasn’t ready to go inside quite yet. I was enjoying the solitude and the peace around me. Beyond that large black wooden door, life wasn’t exactly calm and quiet.  
“Not yet. I’m enjoying the solitude. Besides. I am technically home. And as late as I am, I might as well stay out a bit longer. What’s difference between four hours and three when you are late?” I sent the message and put my phone back into my pocket.   
My life in general was a pleasant one. I went to school. A posh day program that Uncle Mycroft and Father insisted that I attend. My Dad and my father loved each other. My mother was gone. I had plenty of friends and Aunts and Uncles to look out for me. I was smart. Uncle Mycroft often reminded Father that I was smarter than him. And for the most part, I never believed it for a second. But I recalled the first time that I realized that indeed it was true.  
I was twelve and I had always been smart. Dad had put me in school as soon as he was able, but the next school year after Father and Dad had been married, Father insisted that the school I was in was not good enough. I wasn’t being challenged enough. I was sent to the school I attend now. It was perfect for me. I loved every minute of it. But when I was on the cusp of being a true teenager, I found myself involved in a science project that was tougher than anything I had ever encountered before.   
Father had granted me precious space at the kitchen table to work on my experiment. He guided me through my thoughts and my research. But when it came time for actual implantation, he left me to proceed on my own. Father had odd sleeping patterns. Dad told me that when they were flat mates, he rarely slept or slept in such odd patterns that Dad often felt as if he lived alone. Father explained that when his mind was working, sleep was secondary. I could understand that. I often felt the same way. But that night was the first time I had truly experienced it for myself. Father and Dad found me slumped over the table the next morning, my project finished and my data typed up neatly on my laptop. Dad made tea around me as Father looked at my project. I was only half asleep at that point and I kept my eyes closed. Father could tell when I was faking it, but he was too engrossed in my report to notice. I heard him shut my laptop and sigh.  
“What’s the matter? Is it not good?” Dad asked him.  
“That’s the problem John.” Father said.  
“So, I should be worried about how she will handle a poor grade?”  
“No. John. I do not think she will receive a poor mark. I would be surprised if she received anything but the best. It’s perfect.” Father said.  
“Then what has you perplexed?”  
“I’m vexed.” Father corrected. “I’m trying to recall at what point she surpassed me. She’s truly smarter than me.” I couldn’t help but smile. In that Father and Dad noticed my shift and I never got to hear another bit of the conversation. I did indeed receive the highest mark in class for that project. My dad’s were so proud. I felt my mobile buzz in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the message.  
“Four hours or three hours or twenty minutes don’t change a bloody thing. Late is late. Inside. Now.” Dad. I sighed and stood up from the step. I stretched the entirety of my pixie like frame. Neither of my biological parents were tall. And I was slightly below average. But I was also a black belt in Karate and I was a champ on the football patch. Toned and lean, if it wasn’t for my height, you would think I was the perfect antithesis of both my dads. But I was not Father’s biological child. But what’s biology when you have love.  
I heard Father’s foot falls on the steps, his slight hop as he came down the stairs. He opened the door and held it open for me. I stepped into the front hall and stopped. I opened my mouth to say something, most likely an apology. Father looked at me and shook his head. He wrapped his long arm around me and kissed the top of the head.  
“Go to bed. I will talk to Dad.” He said. I nodded my thanks and went straight up to my room. I could hear both their voices in the sitting room, low and Father seemed to be soothing Dad. A moment later, I heard the bedroom door shut and Father moving around the sitting room, most likely shutting things off for the night.   
I took off my jacket and my trainers, peeled off my short hat and lay down on my bed. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and took it to look at my message.  
“I’m sorry your night was so bad. Dad will be better in the morning. I love you, my little sprite.” I smiled a bit to myself. I remembered the first time Father called his little sprite.  
I was seven and I was taking ballet lessons in addition to the martial arts. Dad thought I should do something a bit more feminine and ballet seemed to be the answer. He told me later, that he thought that my being raised by a retired soldier and a detective who were both male, came to appear that there wasn’t a great amount of girly things in my life. He wanted to ensure that something I had was pink and frilly. So, ballet it was. At the end of term, the parents and families were subjected to a recital. We were dancing as little butterflies and our costumes were quite pink. I had little wings and I insisted on multiple dress rehearsals in the sitting room. Dad was working late at the clinic one evening and I wanted to practice. Father agreed to play his violin so I could dance. He watched each move I made with interest. When I was finished he clapped his hands and I flopped on the floor. I was tired and stroppy. He lured me to the sofa with an ice lolly.   
“Father,” I said between licks of the cold cherry flavored ice, “can you ask Daddy if I can stop ballet after the recital.”  
“Why?”  
“I hate it.”  
“Whatever you want.” Father had never called me anything but my name. He never called Dad by anything but John in all the time I had known him unless you count idiot as a term of endearment. Those types of terms were not in his lexicon. But for the first time, he pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. “You shall have whatever you want, my little sprite.” I had twisted my face into some sort of sour expression and Father began laughing.  
“You never call me anything but Anabel.” I said. This only made him laugh harder.  
“You are a sprite.” He said. “I never noticed until I saw the wings.” He fingered the nylon and glitter appendages that grew from my back. I made a noise and got down from the sofa.  
“No more sodding ballet.” I said. Father’s laughter could be heard all the way up to my room.

*******************************************

I woke up with the feeling that I had been asleep for days. I could tell by the angle of the sun coming in through the window that it was closer to lunch time than to morning. I rubbed my hand over my face and realized that I had fallen asleep in my clothes. I didn’t care. I was still upset about the events of the previous evening and I was dying for something to drink. And a visit to the loo was in order. I decided that I needed to go downstairs and face the music before much longer. Dad would only get more upset if I hid out in my room for the rest of the day. I got up from the bed and pulled my long blonde hair away from my face. It was knotty and fizzy, but at the moment I didn’t care. I opened my door and listened for a moment. The flat was quiet, but that didn’t mean anything. Father and Dad could be quiet when they wanted to be.  
I gingerly went down the stairs and made my way straight to the only washroom in the flat. After using the loo, I took a moment to look at myself in the mirror. My make up was okay, a little worse for wear, but not streaked across my face. At least in all the emotional trauma of the previous evening, I hadn’t cried. My hair looked like a science experiment and it was going to be a lot of work to fix it. I pulled it back into a quick plait and went to the kitchen to find a cuppa.  
The kitchen was empty and I found a note taped to the top of the kettle. It was filled and ready to be turned on. I flicked the switch and read the note that was scrawled in Dad’s horrible handwriting.  
“Greg called with a case. We left around ten. I’m still upset with you, but your father explained some of it. Clean the flat. Wash up the dishes. We’ll call it time served. And this is a warning this time. We’ll text you when we are done. Maybe we can met up for dinner. I love you. Dad.” I folded the note in half again and shoved it in my back pocket. I sighed as looked around the flat. Punishment it was. I decided that I needed to send my dad a text to let him know that I accepted the challenge and that I was up and moving.  
“Cleaning this flat is punishment enough.” I said. Dad sent back a text quickly. “Glad to hear you are up. Eat something too. Love you. Father says he loves you too.” I heard the text alert for a second message come in as I read Dad’s message.  
“Do not touch anything on the desk or the table. Stay out of our room. I love you.” I smiled.  
“Thanks for talking Dad around.” I said.  
I pulled off my clothes as I turned on the taps for the shower. I had cleaned the flat within an inch of it’s life. I heard my phone chime as I stepped into the steaming water and let my sweaty frame feel better. I washed my hair with my usual coconut shampoo and I scrubbed myself down with the same scented body wash. I loved the smell. It reminded me of my first real vacation.  
Dad and Father worked. A lot. And then there were the lulls between cases. I went to school and never knew who was going to be home when I got there. I became good at adapting to a constant shift in routine and allowing myself to be fed a lot of take away. But I came home from school one day to find Father and Dad waiting for me.  
“Pack a bag.” Father said. “We are going on a proper holiday.”  
“Where?” I asked.  
“South of France.” Dad said. “Uncle Mycroft has a house. We are going to stay there for three weeks.” I ran to my room and threw a bunch of stuff in it. I had just turned fourteen and was more than excited. By the time we returned, I was brown and relaxed. Even Father with his naturally pale pallor was darker than normal. He looked less vampric and more human.   
So, I loved the smell of coconut. It reminded me of the smell of the sun oil I used on my skin. I turned off the taps and wrapped a towel around myself. I ran a brush through my mid back length curly hair. If I didn’t tame it, it would frizz. I pulled a bit of product threw it and pulled it into a tight pony tail. I pulled out my phone from the pocket of my jeans and looked at my message.  
“We are finishing up at the Yard. Meet us at Angelo’s?” It was from my Father.   
“Just got out of the shower. How long?” I sent the message and gathered my clothes to put in the laundry. I went up to my room and put on a pair of comfy yoga pants and a tee shirt. I found socks and my favorite trainers. If nothing else I could go for a run after dinner. I grabbed my headphones and my phone as I made my way down stairs.  
“Finished now. Meet you there in ten minutes.” Father texted back. I added my small wallet and my keys to my pocket of my hoodie and went out the door. Angelo’s was only a ten minute walk at a normal pace. If I came close to a slow jog it would take me less time. I ran. I ran often. It was something that Dad and I did on occasion and I ran at school. I loved it. I was the first one there and Angelo greeted me at the door. He showed me to our usual table, chattering away at me when I took my usual seat. He brought me a water and I sipped as I looked over the menu I memorized when I was seven.  
The first time Dad and Father took me to Angelo’s I was four. Father and Dad had been, well dating for a while at that point. Dad and I were still living in our old flat, just the two of us. Father decided it was high time that I met the famous Angelo. And Father wanted to make sure that I was presentable in public before he dined with me. I was enamored with the quaintness of the place. It was our first family date. Angelo cooed over me for hours and I fell asleep on Dad’s lap as he and Father talked into the night. I don’t remember most of the conversation, but Dad told me later that was the night that they became what they are today and six months later, when I was about to start school and Dad’s lease on the old flat was up, we moved to Baker Street.  
Father and Dad rushed into the restaurant after I had been there for about five minutes. Father’s face was flush with the after glow of solving a case and Dad’s face was full of the awe he got from watching Father work. I had only been on a handful of cases with them. We were usually out doing something as a family when the call came and it was safe enough for me to go with. I never got near any bodies until I was well into my teens and I only had seen my first corpse about a year ago when Aunt Molly allowed me to see one at the morgue where she worked. Usually I was seated in a police car with either Uncle Greg talking to me while Father and Dad worked or with Sargent Donovan griping at me about baby sitting duty. It wasn’t until I was a teenager and she realized that I was growing up without a mother that she was more kind to me. She would try to talk to me about music or fashion, but she was so much older and woefully out of touch it was hard to carry on a conversation.  
Father kissed me on the cheek when he sat down in his chair and Dad gave me a look before kissing me himself. Angelo came over to talk to us for a bit before insisting he make something himself for us to eat. Father picked up his phone and began scrolling through it, trying to allow Dad and I some time to talk.  
“So, what do you have to tell me?” Dad asked, his voice even and calm. In some respects it was better than the whole tirade of his anger, but in some it was worse. I hated seeing Dad like this. He didn’t do calm well and it always made me a little anxious to hear the calm there. I knew that the anger was just under the surface and it was going to be bad when it exploded.  
“I went to the party as I told you I was going to. But when I got there, Heather took off with the boy she fancied and left me there. I walked around the party for a bit and realized that I knew next to no one there and those I did know were not people I wanted to be around. This bloke, Geoff offered me a ride home. Half way home, he tried to, well, let’s just say at the next stop light, I jumped out of the car. He yelled some not nice things. I walked the rest of the way home.” I said. That was all there was to say about my horrible night.  
“Why didn’t you call for a ride? Or take a cab?” Dad asked. Easy questions.  
“I wanted some time alone. I lost track of that time.” I said. There was no one at fault for my lateness other than myself. But I needed to spend some time thinking about what had happened and just how far I was really willing to go with a boy. I was only seventeen. I thought that Father understood this and he nodded a bit.  
“Got lost in her own head, I suspect.” He said, reading my mind as he was wont to do from time to time.  
“Correct.” I said. Angelo set a large portion of pasta in front of me. I tucked in realizing that I was starving and to fill my mouth so that Dad couldn’t ask any more questions. I was happy when he tucked into his own food. Father on the other hand pushed his around with his fork for a moment before putting his fork down and looking at me.  
“Sprite, you know that no matter what time, where you are or what you have been doing one of us will come for you, right? And if you are in real trouble all you have to do is wave at a CCTV camera and Uncle Mycroft would have you rescued in a moment.” He said the last bit with the usual disdain he carried for his brother.  
“I do.” I said around my food. I swallowed. “But last night I wasn’t in any more trouble than any other time. I just walked and had a think.”  
“Thinking is fine. Next time, send a text.” Dad said. I knew that the conversation was over and I was no longer punished. With all the bad things that Father and Dad had endured, I knew that they worried about me constantly. But they also gave me enough freedom. Most of my friends didn’t have that much freedom in their lives and were often jealous.  
I told Dad and Father I was going for a run and that I would be back in about ninety minutes. I was not such an die hard runner that I would run for that long, but I knew from experience that after a case, my dads got a little, well amorous. I knew they loved each other and it was natural, but it wasn’t something I wanted to hear. I decided to run for a bit and then I sat on a park bench outside of Regent’s Park. I had my phone plugged into my ears and didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until he was right on top of me. I startled a bit when the hand hit my shoulder and my heart thundered in my chest because of my fright.  
“Sorry, Anabel.” Uncle Mycroft said, coming around to sit next to me on the bench. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”  
“It’s fine.” I said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. I know that he was my Father’s older brother and that neither my Father nor my Dad were overly fond of him. But I loved Uncle Mycroft. He was order and peace where disorder ruled in my world. We spent a lot of time together over the years and he treated me as if I were the queen. He was different with me than with my dads. He was more open and real with me. He was very hidden and shifty with them. But I suspected it was because I was younger and smarter than him.  
We sat in silence for a while. We were good at that. We often just sat and communicated without saying a word. I looked at my phone and noted that I was near the end of my ninety minutes. I wanted to go home and open the book I had been reading. I also wanted to be near my dads. It had been a long twenty four hours and I wanted the safety and security of the flat. I rose to go and kissed Uncle Mycroft on the cheek.  
“Next time, wave at a camera. I will send a car.” I smiled and nodded. Of course he knew what had happened the previous evening. I began to walk towards home, feeling very loved.   
I climbed the seventeen stairs up into the flat. Father was sitting at the kitchen table, looking in his microscope. Dad was sitting in his chair reading. Both their hair was still damp from a shower. I kissed my dad on the cheek and went to the kitchen to get a bottle of water.  
“Nice run?” Dad asked.  
“Yes. Thanks.” I said.  
“How is Mycroft?” Father asked. I smiled and shook my head.  
“Fine.” I answered. Father got up from his microscope and pulled me into a rare hug. Father was very tactile but affection was not often the motivation. He came near to my ear and whispered in it, his deep voice sending shivers through me.  
“Thank you for the run.” I knew what he meant. I smiled and nodded as I blushed. I went up to my room and lay down on my bed. The color and heat of my blush was beginning to fade. I closed my eyes and tried not to remember the first time I realized that my parents had sex.  
Sex education in school was straight forward biology. Being that I was such an advanced reader, I began reading some of the text books lying around the flat when I was young. I had a working knowledge of the biology long before school introduced it. I was prepared for being female. But when we discussed sex in school, I realized my biggest gap in my education came from homosexual sex. I was a decent enough hacker that I was able to dismantle the parental blocks Dad had placed on the internet and began to research. Two hours later, I had more knowledge in my eleven year old head about gay sex than anyone should. I couldn’t look my dads in the eye for days. Father deduced it after two days. He waited until it was just he and I home that weekend. He sat me in Dad’s chair and looked at me.  
“So, do you have questions?” he asked. I blushed bright red. “It’s natural. Despite what other might say. Your Dad and I love each other.”  
“But it’s gross.” I said. Father sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin as was his usual position to think.   
“Have you… have other children… other people told you…” I put up my hand to stop him. He was trying hard to get the words out and failing.  
“Father, I don’t care what other people think. I don’t care if they call you poof or faggot or whatever their small minds come up with. But the act of touching someone, boy or girl in that way is gross.” He heaved a hefty sigh of relief. He thought I was saying the sex he and Dad had was gross where I was expressing my disdain for sex in general. He became quiet and still for a moment. Finally he spoke, and his voice was quiet.  
“Do other people say that a lot about Dad and I? Do they single you out? Do they say mean things about you?” His voice was concerned and I shrugged my shoulders.   
“I don’t really know.” I answered. “I’ve never given it much thought. You and Dad are married. But I know that Dad was married to Mum once. Aunt Harry is married to Lillia and she was married to Clara before that. Uncle Mycroft isn’t married. Anderson and Sargent Donovan have been having sex for years and he was married. Just because people are small minded doesn’t mean I have to be or that I should let it bother me.” His face was stunned into shock. His mouth was open. I know that I was not only smarter than him, but I seemed to be more mature than most people I encountered. Uncle Greg said I had an old soul. Aunt Molly told me that I was more like my dad in that respect. Tolerant and loyal. But she also quipped that I was like Father too. Smarter than anyone and given to solitude. I know that Dad worried I was lonely. But I wasn’t.  
I rolled over on my bed and pulled out my phone. I hadn’t heard from any of my friends all weekend and noted that it was still early enough to send out a text or two. I had a best friend, my cousin Teddy. He was Aunt Molly and Uncle Greg’s son. He was a year younger than me, but we were together from the beginning of my life at Baker Street. I sent him a text. I told him about my night the night before and he commiserated with me. We thought about getting our parents together for dinner the next evening so that we could spend some time together. I sent a text to Dad.  
“How about if we invite Aunt Molly and Uncle Greg for dinner tomorrow. I want to see Teddy.” I said. I heard his phone chiming downstairs and his laugh.  
“Texting from the other room. Just like your father. Sure. I’ll text Molly and set it up.” He said. I changed my messages back to the conversation I was having with Teddy. It had been a long weekend and it wasn’t over.  
I thought about how Teddy and I became friends. I was five when we moved to Baker Street. There were a lot of people who helped move my things and Dad’s things from our flat. Mrs. Hudson was trying to keep me entertained in her flat, but I was too curious as to what was going on. I kept walking upstairs. I found Father and Dad in their bedroom, putting Dad’s clothes away. Dad was working and whistling. It was his happy whistle song. Father was sitting on the bed, with his phone in his hand, smiling the biggest smile I had ever seen him smile. He saw me standing in the door and motioned for me to come nearer to him. He picked me up and put me on the bed.  
“Would you like a friend to come over and play with?” Dad asked. Father had narrowed his eyes at him. I had heard Father tell Dad that the other children in my class were stupid and not good enough for me to play with. Dad always laughed and said something about goldfish. I tentatively nodded my head. Dad asked Father to text someone named Molly, who was to be my Aunt Molly and invite her and Teddy over to play. I thought Teddy was a stupid name for a boy and better suited to a bear. But I kept that comment to myself.  
Teddy and Aunt Molly showed up later that afternoon. Teddy was a year younger than me and all boy at first. He was as tall as me, but I was short for my age. He looked at me and asked if I had Legos. I told him I did and we spent the rest of the afternoon building a fortress up in my new room. Dad came up with Aunt Molly when it was time to for them to go, promising that we could play together again.  
I looked over to my wall and my eyes sought out all the family photos that I had hung there. The one in the center left, the second closest place to my heart was a picture of Teddy and I from that day. He was wearing a striped jumper and jeans and I was wearing a pink shirt and leggings. My blonde hair was shorter then, as it was easier for Dad to handle. But the curls made a wild halo around my head. Teddy’s brown hair was short then, not the long in his eyes style that he preferred now and his parents often bemoaned. He was handsome and Aunt Molly often hinted that we should start a romance. Teddy and I always had a good laugh over that.  
I pulled out my usual sleep gear and changed. I nestled down into my bed and turned out the light. I thought about my life. The events of the last twenty four hours and realized that no matter how much my school mates complained about their lives, I wouldn’t change a thing about mine. I had loving parents. A best friend. Aunts and Uncles who cared about me. And even if one boy wanted to be a complete wanker, I knew that I had made the right decisions. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, feeling very content and happy. Exactly twenty four hours after I was sitting on the front steps of 221 B Baker Street.


End file.
